


We Still Ain’t Dating! (POV 1)

by Lucky7



Series: 1 Story - 3 POV's [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Fusco, Recovery, Rescue, Reunion, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:27:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky7/pseuds/Lucky7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t have to get closer to recognize those long legs, the pricey shoes, or the expensive slacks. As he picks up his pace, a litany drums in his brain to the beat of his feet on the pavement: “Don’t be dead…don’t be dead…don’t be dead…<br/><b>(Set sometime between S1 and S3.09; This is Fusco's POV; Reese and Finch POV also available for this fic.)</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rescue

Detective Lionel Fusco has always understood he’s a better follower than a leader.

Oh, not that he can’t bark orders with the best of them! But in his universe he’s much more comfortable letting someone else take point. So comfortable in fact, that as far as he’s concerned he’s reached the pinnacle of his career with no desire to move any higher. And besides, he's very aware that the political blade swings back and forth just above his pay grade, regularly slicing away some poor chump - to be replaced of course by another poor chump.

He’ll stay where he’s at - thank you very much - safely buried in the bullpen.

That personality quirk has always been there: he sat in a back seat of every class he ever attended, made sure all group photos showed him partially hidden by those in the front rows, and he never, ever, volunteered to lead a committee, start a project, or facilitate a discussion. And if he was assigned to such a position he would always find someone more ambitious to take over…at which point he simply provided support, something at which he is much better.

In his marching band of life he is very comfortable playing the tuba in the back, behind the trumpets and trombones and far removed from the over dressed baton tossing dude that generally leads the parade. The tuba is just fine. It requires some heft, which he has, and can produce some really loud notes…and nobody expects him to play the top-line.

Which is the point of course. Providing the melody is for leaders, not followers.

He reminisces about all this while driving into an area where he’d much prefer not be. But this is likely the sort of place this particular band is going to lead him more often than not as long as the majordomo, or domos in this case, are the Dynamic Duo.

Just when he started to follow that peculiar pair is becoming increasingly fuzzy…but he does remember he held true to his creed originally and didn’t volunteer to participate in their parade. In fact, in the beginning he put up a bit of a fuss…even tried to off the guy trying to blackmail him into marching to his beat!

But that proactive out of step behavior didn't sit well with him even then, and after a while it was easier, and a lot safer, just to give in and remain in the band block. After all, he may hit a sour note occasionally, but he's tuned up enough to understand that bucking Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly can be hazardous to his health.

“So what am I doing here, Professor?” Fusco asks, more than a little annoyed that he once again has been put in the position of a gofer.

Not exactly what he signed up for when he joined the force, but he supposes that’s also the result of following rather than leading. At least he’s gofering for a higher class guy now than the HR scum who usually send him on errands! Glasses is someone he can admire, even if he doesn’t understand him much. And the fact that the older, crippled male is able to control a killing machine like Reese? That makes the man downright scary, worthy of extra respect!

“Wonder Boy in trouble again?”

 _“Just drive Detective. I’ll let you know where to turn.”_ The answer comes from the same phone that had rung not 20 minutes earlier, a number he always recognizes and doesn’t dare ignore…doesn’t want to ignore. _“Are you on Waverly yet?”_

“Coming up on it. I should get hazardous duty pay for this ya know. Not exactly the best part of town…!”

 _“I need you behind that storage facility, Detective. There’s an abandoned building just down the street,”_ is the dispassionate response. “ _You’ll find Mr. Reese in the alley between the structures…”_

“Storage facility…Ok. There it is. And I guess you mean this crappy green building. But I don’t see…wait… “ Fusco replies, and then in a tone filled with disgust, “Oh, great! You expect me to go alone into that pit? If the thugs don’t get me, the rats will!”

 _“Please hurry, Detective. Time is of the essence!”_ And he detects a thread of urgency in that normally calm voice. _“The police have already been notified of shots heard…”_

“Wonderful. So what am I going to find? Your boy bleeding out…?”

He’s already out of the car and approaching the entrance to the darken alley, slipping the ITE device in position. He’s never going get used to that thing in his ear, jumping every time he hears someone talking to him. And how his nemesis puts up with the constant eavesdropping is beyond him…though he supposes military training has something to do with the easy acceptance of this lack of privacy.

_“I sincerely hope not.”_

He hears the anxiety escalating in that remote voice and it automatically heightens his own level of concern. Just what happened here? What’s he going to run into?

Gun drawn - since you never know what to expect from these dark holes – he enters the shadowy passageway. Just as bad as he’d feared. Garbage, trash, and from the amount of empty bottles and used needles strewn about, evidently home to more than just vermin of the four legged variety. Walking carefully along the wall, he moves toward a wider area formed by the end of one building and the start of another, more narrow one.

And comes to a full stop.

Two…no, three…bodies. Two males lying very still face down, and one on his back, emitting the pitiful moans to be expected from someone shot in the kneecap. The cop in him takes over as he dutifully checks the wounded scrub and the two bodies dropped like so much litter on the filthy alley ground.

He turns over the dead two, and what da ya know - these are mugs he’s seen before: like on the roster for one of the more vicious east side gangs. He’s pretty sure he’s bagged these bozo’s some time in the past, so no big loss there. Just two more low-lifes sieved from the shallow end of the gene pool.

And the third one won’t be walking for a long time, if ever, since he doubts the thug is carrying any type of insurance that would provide for a total knee replacement.

 _“Detective! Do you see him?”_ Finch’s voice is now beyond urgent and edging into panic. The geek definitely knows what’s gone down here and is expecting the worse. Not good news.

“Still looking, Professor. Don’t get your panties in a wad.”

With that profound statement he moves deeper into the alley toward a better illuminated area where the weak winter sun spills over the lower roof part of the building. Even so, filtered as it is through several layers of clouds, the light doesn’t completely penetrate the gloom. But after carefully scrutinizing the area he thinks he can see something: a fuzzy shadow formed by the building cuts across a pair of human legs, the rest of the body they’re attached to lost in the shade of the wall. And...

"Aw, jeez..!"

He doesn’t have to get closer to recognize those long legs, the pricey shoes, or the expensive slacks. As he picks up his pace, a litany drums in his brain to the beat of his feet on the pavement: “Don’t be dead…don’t be dead…don’t be dead…”

(To Be Continued...)


	2. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fusco doesn’t need to fill in the blanks. In this part of the city, it could be days before someone stumbled onto the mayhem in this alley, after which he would no longer have to worry about Mr. Sunshine here.

Mr. Fearsome. His Nemesis, Bane of his Existence, and - he has to admit, very reluctantly - sometimes Hero. He’d been halfway kidding about finding Finch’s weapon of destruction bleeding out, but sees instantly that it may not be far from reality if the growing dark stain under that smartly clad leg is any indication.

 _“Detective! Are you still there?”_ This time there is no mistaking the alarm in the question.

“Got him, Professor. Let me check things out. I’ll get back to you…”

 _“Oh, thank God. He’s still alive then?”_ the computer genius replies, all artifice forgotten as equal shades of relief and worry color his voice.

Fusco holsters his gun and approaches the motionless figure. Damn, he’d better be alive. Like, he’s not through yelling at the Suit yet; there are a lot of things still to call him on. For starters, what the hell was he doing here without back-up!

Oh, yeah, right. Mr. Deadly never needs help. Except maybe this time.

Fusco kneels next to the still body, the refrain still running through his head: “don’t be dead…don’t be dead…don’t be dead…” And at the same time, if the guy is gone, he’s already wondering how he’s going to tell Finch. And Carter.

He reaches for the ex-op’s neck, checking for a pulse.

“Don’t worry, Lionel. Still above ground…”

Fusco almost jumps at the whispery voice, and then his hands go on auto-pilot, searching out the source of the bleeding. “Yeah. I figured. Only the good die young,” he replies, surprising himself at how relieved he is at finding those peepers staring back at him, the blue of those eyes all the more notable against a face gone pale. But he doesn’t analyze his reactions much; after all, this is his tormenter, the one who’s spent the last several months pushing him into some pretty uncomfortable situations job wise.

Pushing? No, that’s not even the right word. Coercing, forcing, blackmailing, threatening…

And right now that tormenter is lying propped up against a dirty building wall in his expensive suit not moving at all and has closed his eyes again as though to avoid looking death in the face. Despite Fusco’s intention to come across as professional and detached, that worries him. A lot.

“Any other holes I should know about…other than this one in your leg?” he asks gruffly, running his hands over the taller man’s body. He finds it amazing the injured man doesn’t object, considering the whole I-am-your-boss vibe the guy usually projects when around others. But then maybe the Suit is beyond that right now. Again, not a good sign.

 _“Detective! I’d like a report..!”_ The sudden voice in his ear reminds him that Finch is listening in on every word; he’s forgotten all about that little ear do-dad! Is this why Reese never seems concerned by his boss’s constant surveillance…forgetting it’s there, just like he just did?

“He’s alive Professor. As far as I can tell there’s just one hole…in his thigh. And from the looks of things…” Fusco probes under the leg, ignoring the ex-ops sudden intake of breath, “…a clean through and through. Right through the muscle.” He sits back on his heels, very aware Reese is panting lightly through the pain. “Your boy must have someone in his corner; it missed a major artery. But from the size of that puddle, he’s still lost a lot of blood.” Too much.

 _“I’ve not been able to contact him all day,”_ Finch says, self-incrimination now seemingly winning over distress. _“It took some time to find him on the cameras…”_

Fusco doesn’t need to fill in the blanks. In this part of the city, it could be days before someone stumbled onto the mayhem in this alley, after which he would no longer have to worry about Mr. Sunshine here.

But right now he’s got other things to be concerned about…like those sirens he hears in the distance. And that if he were to transport Finch’s hired gun in his patrol car, he’d likely run right into the very crowd he needs to avoid. And wouldn’t that be just peachy..!

And on that fleeting thought he recognizes how committed he has become to marching in this Duo’s parade; he doesn’t even consider calling for outside medical assistance. Besides, if he doesn’t keep Mr. Happy out of the system, he’ll incur the wrath of both Finch _and_ Carter. And he really doesn’t know which would be worse!

“Hey, the uni’s are on their way. We need to book outta here, but I can’t…”

_“Way ahead of you, Detective. Just get him to the street.”_

“What about my car?”

 _“They’ll never notice the extra vehicle. Detective Carter is with them so she’ll cover for you –somehow - and drive your patrol car back.“_ There were only a few times in his interactions with Finch that the geek sounded this forceful, but this was definitely one of those times. _“There should be a cab pulling up any minute. Get John out of that alley…now!”_

Yeah, right. Not like Wonder Boy is going to get up and walk out of here without a lot of help. And the man is no light weight. But there isn’t much choice now is there? But first he’s got to stop that leak. He reaches for Reese’s belt buckle and in an instant his wrist is immobilized in a vise-like grip.

“Whoa! Take it easy Kemo Sabe! I’m only trying to help, not cop a feel!” The grip on his arm lessens minutely. “I need to get a tourniquet on that leg. You may not have had a main break, but you still got some smaller pipes leaking like a sieve.”

“Fine…” Reese whispers, allowing his hand to fall back to the ground. And as much as Fusco is relieved his charge is cooperating, part of him wishes Reese had fought back a bit more. At least that would have indicated the guy still had some energy left for what now had to happen.

He quickly pulls the belt out of its loops and places it as high up around the Suit’s thigh as he can without interfering with the guy’s family jewels. Because _that_ , he thinks, Reese would probably find the energy to object to…

“You’re going to have to help me here, buddy! You need to get up on your feet.” He leans over, grabs Reese by the arm and pulls, eliciting a stifled groan from the injured man.

“Buddy..?” The incredulous response comes between pants, but Fusco pays no attention, concentrating on getting the ex-op’s one good leg under him. And with a great deal of maneuvering, Reese is finally upright, leaning heavily on the cop.

Helping someone a good head taller ambulate is no easy task, especially when that someone has a leaking hole in one leg…as Fusco quickly finds out. He secures Reese’s arm over his shoulder with one hand and encircles the taller mans waist with the other, grabbing a handful of expensive suit as an anchor.

Though Reese doesn’t make a sound, his panting increases and the cop knows the taller man is trying desperately not to weigh down his rescuer…but Fusco simply pulls the ex-op against his own, more ample body and moves forward at as fast a pace as possible.

The sirens are closer now, and soon cruisers will circle around the storage building like a wolf pack coming in for a kill. He speeds up the pace, shutting out the heavy breathing in his ear. Better the guy hurt now than find himself in the slammer later…but it’s never easy listening to someone in pain.

He just hopes to God that Finch has managed to find some transportation, or they’ll both be in deep doo-doo.

Finally reaching the mouth of the alley, he’s panting almost as heavily as his burden. But there is the taxi, just like Glasses promised! The cabby gets out and meets him halfway, grabbing Reese’s other arm and between them they manage to stuff the Suit into the back seat, moving the ex-op’s injured leg as gently as possible.

Fusco wonders if this driver is another one of Finch’s assets, since the cabby says not one word to indicate he finds anything strange about the situation. Not even a directive to “don’t bleed on my seats”… which event is a given.

They take off within seconds of the siren mob rounding the warehouse, and Fusco breathes a sigh of relief. He leans forward and scans the information on the back of the taxi driver’s seat. “Uh…Fermin?” He reads the name on the registration card. “Any idea where we’re supposed to be going?”

The cabby doesn’t answer as he drives sedately and without any sign of alarm past several late coming patrol cars. Once beyond the screaming sirens and flashing lights, he turns onto the main boulevard and responds, “I have my instructions. Don’t worry, I’ll get you and your friend there in one piece.”

_(To be continued)_


	3. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s not such a girl as to analyze his feelings much, and only intuitively knows this on-going depression has something to do with why he keeps checking his phone.

So…another one of the Duo’s backup team. He’s beginning to wonder just how large is this army of assets the Professor commands. But right now he’s got a bigger worry. His charge has gone completely still, face white as a sheet and breathing now so shallow as to be almost imperceptible. Reese’s head is slumped back against the seat, his length keeping both legs folded at an uncomfortable angle in the cab’s limited space, putting pressure on the injured leg and no doubt causing the guy a great deal of discomfort.

At this rate the Suit will be out for the count, and he still has to get him to Finch. Alive.

_“Damn…”_

Fusco grabs the tall man’s arm and with some gentle tugging drags him to one side so that Reese's head is braced against the cop’s shoulder, the injured leg now able to semi-stretch as his foot slides under the cab’s front seat. The fact that Wonder Boy is not resisting at all has Fusco at the edge of panic. To go through all this and then deliver a body to the Professor? No, that just can’t be the way this ends!

Fusco crowds his door some more and guides the ex-op’s head from shoulder to lap, thereby allowing the taller man to lay on his side, more prone on the bench seat and in what Fusco hopes is a position that will slow the drop in blood pressure.

“Yeah…but just so's you know: we still ain’t dating!” he says to the semi-conscious man whose head is now resting on the cop’s thigh.

Fortunately Reese gives no indication that he’s noticed the change in position - thank God for small favors - and Fusco presses his fingers on the ex-op’s carotid artery, relieved that he can still find a pulse, even weak as it is.

What is probably just minutes but seems like hours later, they pull up to the back of an exclusive condo unit where the ground floor garage door rises upon their arrival. The cabby immediately drives into the darkened area, a space that lights up like a Walmart parking lot before the car even rolls to a stop. The garage door lowers with a muted rumble behind them.

He sees Finch hurrying toward him, his distinctive lurching gait very pronounced, followed by a couple of stout and totally unremarkable medically garbed attendants pushing a gurney. Fusco’s not sure of his moves now. Not a leader, he reminds himself…and hopes that Finch will hustle and give him some instructions as to what he’s to do with this dead weight – _no, not dead…don’t think like that!_ \- lying next to him on the cab’s back seat bench.

Part of him wants to get rid of this responsibility as soon as possible; if Wonder Boy is going to kick the bucket, better it be on Finch’s watch than his own. Then he’d only have to worry about how to break the news to Carter.

But another part is screaming in frustration at not being able to do more to help the one person who has managed to make him feel proud to be a cop again - because somehow, sometime, the Professor’s deadly weapon of choice has begun to play an important role in the performance of his job as detective. And Carter’s job.

He tells himself it’s all professional of course. That since the Suit has been instrumental in taking down some of the baddies on the street, he could, with a bit of a stretch, think of Reese as an “asset” to him and Carter.

 _Yeah, right._ And in his mind’s eye, he sees Mr. Sunshine smirking and Carter laughing at him all the way out of the bull pen!

In quick order the attendants have the cab door open and Reese on the gurney. Finch flutters around them much like his namesake, giving orders, directions, and wincing visibly at his employee’s stifled groan as the burly pair gently stretch the ex-op out on the narrow mattress. The Suit seems to revive briefly, tries to sit up but the effort turns out his light and he slumps back unto the pad. As the gurney is rolled toward the private elevator, the computer geek finally turns to Fusco, his face permanently creased in worry lines.

“Thank you Detective. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to help you but I had to arrange for the appropriate facilities for Mr. Reese.” And with that calm pronouncement he hurries to catch the elevator door before it closes.

“You’re welcome!” Fusco calls after him as the garage door raises again, allowing him and the cabby to leave. “Keep in touch, yeah?”

 

 

_Months later…_

“That’s the rest, Carter.”

He lays the thick stack of forms in front of her, thankful to have finally finished the tedious task, even if it required he stay way past his shift time last night. She gives him a baleful look. He’s just added to her workload for the day, since part of the routine paperwork dumped on her desk will now require her input as well. And her plans for the evening didn’t include shuffling more paper around.

“Well, gee…thank you so much!” Words laced with sarcasm.

And he asks the question that has become part of their morning routine. “Heard anything?”

“Not a word,” she responds, knowing what Fusco is asking and giving him the same answer she has now for the many weeks past. She shoves the towering stack aside. “The cell numbers still don’t work. That pair has gone completely dark,” she reminds him with a sigh. “We’ll just have to wait till one or the other surfaces again.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, and makes his way back to his own desk.

Months have passed and he’s fallen into the familiar rut…routine…whatever…of the job. Cuffed, stuffed, and bagged his share of city scum. Participated in drug busts. Gave depositions. Filled out a blizzard of paper reports and online forms. Got called on the carpet for missing a court date - and then was handed a commendation for participating on a FBI sting.

And still, all the while feeling like he’s just going through the motions. Like his world has somehow gone off kilter, with puzzle pieces of his life shifting around and nothing fitting together quite right.

The only time he feels somewhat put together is during time spent with his son…and Rhonda, when his schedule can dove-tail with hers.

If he were capable of creating a literary allusion, which assumption would be that he even knew what the word meant…he could say that his life’s marching band is still playing the songs, but every melody is now slightly out of tune. And without a majordomo, his particular parade is just wandering along without much energy, enthusiasm, or direction.

But he’s not such a girl as to analyze his feelings much, and only intuitively knows this on-going depression has something to do with why he keeps checking his phone. And why, when it does ring, there’s always this tiny burst of anticipation.

But hope, or something, is inevitably squashed; it’s never the call he seems to be waiting on.

So now it’s déjà vu all over again – like the last time the Duo disappeared while Reese was healing from wounds compliments of his former employers. That time Fusco hadn’t even been closely involved – it was all Carters game. But he’d heard the details later and watched his partner grope for equilibrium after internalizing the anger at being played by the CIA, with the added horror of having watched the Man in the Suit gunned down right in front of her eyes. And then there was of course her feeling of guilt at having had a hand in that shooting.

That time it was months before the two individuals appeared again…testimony to the critical role Finch’s human weapon plays in their endeavors to save people. So what would happen if sometime Reese didn’t come back? Would the Professor still want to continue with his strange hobby? Would he be able to?

Fusco’s gone back several times now to that ritzy condo where he and the cabby delivered Reese, even going so far as to ring the doorbell while rehearsing some lame story about having to check out a complaint call…but nothing: the place is deserted. And now has a ‘for sale’ sign in the window.

So the Professor took his employee to some other location to recuperate - or at least that’s what he’s hoping. Would be nice if someone would just give him an update, now wouldn’t it! After all, wasn’t he the one instrumental in saving Wonder Boy?

Assuming he saved him. The image of that large puddle of blood and the ex-ops pale face…But the Professor has resources no normal person does; he wouldn’t have permitted Wonder Boy to die!

And since that line of thinking always depresses him, he leaves the station to find a falafel vendor, because there’s nothing like lining your stomach with grease to make a person feel better.

As he’s biting into the third fritter, his phone rings, starting that little adrenaline push he’s come to expect with every call. “Fusco here…” he mumbles around a mouthful of chickpeas, not even bothering to look at the number on the cell.

_“Hello, Lionel. Miss me?”_

The whispery voice in his ear has him swallowing hastily, his fumbling hands accidently dropping the last of the fritter on the sidewalk. And he suddenly realizes that in a dark corner of his mind he seldom visits, a lock box where he keeps other life horrors tucked away, he has been secretly harboring the possibility of Reese being dead.

His mind spins as he attempts with his inexperience for that sort of thing, to identify the various reactions that sound has summoned: relief at knowing Wonder Boy is still alive, anger that he was kept in the dark so long, grateful that this complicated connection with his nemesis is still intact…

As he responds, his adrenaline spike levels off, his world rights itself, and all the puzzle pieces fall magically back into place. The majordomo is back to lead the band…

“Nah. You been gone?”

\- End -


End file.
